


sweetest downfall

by RestlessWanderings



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Asexual Aziraphale (Good Omens), Asexual Crowley (Good Omens), Asexual Relationship, Aziraphale Questions, Aziraphale is Capable, Crowley Needs a Hug (Good Omens), Crowley's Hair (Good Omens), F/F, HAROLD THEY'RE LESBIANS, Hurt!Crowley, Ineffable Wives (Good Omens), Pining, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Protective!Aziraphale, Snake Crowley (Good Omens), Yearning, almost burning at the stake, mentions of discorporations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-16
Updated: 2019-09-16
Packaged: 2020-10-20 05:08:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20669819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RestlessWanderings/pseuds/RestlessWanderings
Summary: It hits Aziraphale out of the blue one day that if loving Crowley is a sin then it’s the only sin worth committing.or: some falls are gentle





	sweetest downfall

**Author's Note:**

> listen i have so many other things i could be doing. i've got that chapter of my spop fic i need to finish, i've got like 20 grad school assignments, i gotta sell my car
> 
> and yet here i am
> 
> inspired by regina spektor's 'samson' bc lets be real that is absolutely an ineffable husbands song
> 
> why is it that every time i write gomens its song inspired? can this be called a songfic? am i actually just writing modern songfics? is this my contribution to the fandom: hopefully non-cringey songfics? if it is well, you know, it be like that sometimes
> 
> anyway enjoy the yearning

_you are my sweetest downfall_

_beneath the sheets of paper lies my truth_

* * *

She’s never seen the sunset. She’s the guardian of the Eastern Gate, after all – what use does she have for sunsets? Sunsets mean an end, and there’s something so melancholic about endings. She’s not one for thinking about them.

She prefers the sunrises. All grey dawn light that softens the edge of the horizon until she thinks she can see the edge of Heaven itself, if she squints hard enough. Light blue blending into rosy shafts of light that seem to reach for her and she welcomes them with a smile each time, unable to help herself as she watches the Sun begin it’s climb.

That’s not to say, though, that she isn’t tempted to sneak a peek behind her shoulder when the sun gets low. By the third day she’s itchy with curiosity and by the sixth day she’s twitchy with it.

_Surely a quick look won’t hurt, _she thinks, eyes roving across the darkening desert in front of her. After all, it’s not like she’s abandoning her post or some such. Just taking a quick break.

Her first sunset will never leave her and despite all the words she’ll come to read, she’ll never find the right words to describe it. The colors, the breeze, the taste of the air – all of it is utterly indescribable, and no other sunset will ever compare to that first one.

As she converses with Crawly she can’t help but stare at her hair, can’t help the sudden breathlessness because her hair is the _exact _color of that first sunset.

And as the rain begins to fall and she lifts one of her wings up to shelter the demon she knows she’ll never find the words for that color.

She also knows she won’t stop trying.

-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-

The first few centuries are, well, not _boring,_per say, and certainly not forgettable, but Aziraphale knows there’s something missing. She’s learning a lot from the humans – their clothes, their languages, their food, their art – but everything goes fairly smoothly. She blesses some folks here, some harvests there; she miracles away an illness here, miracles up a well that’ll stay full for the next thousand years there. It’s all very by the book. She doesn’t step a toe out of line.

Well. Not on purpose, anyway, but when humans begin baking different kinds of bread she can’t help herself. Besides, it’s not as if she doesn’t share. She gives plenty of loaves out to the children that always end up gravitating to her, despite her hesitancy about them.

It’s not that she doesn’t like the children of course, it’s just that they’re so very touchy and she’s quite fond of her personal space, thank you very much.

But there’s something _missing. _Call her naïve, but she was a warrior once. She was a guardian, once. There’s purpose here, she knows there is, in guarding and watching humanity. And she takes it seriously, she does, but she wasn’t created to guard humanity, not really. She was meant to guard the Garden. And before that, God Herself.

So all of this miracling and blessing is, is, it’s great, _really, it is! _But it’s also somewhat rote. Routine.

She sighs, making her way out of the village towards a hill in the distance. Maybe if she takes a few deep breaths and relaxes for the night she’ll be able to rid herself of this dreadful curl in her gut. Her walk through the thin forest is silent, and already she’s mourning this once lush landscape, feeling her Divinity spark under her skin. She could revive it, if she wanted to, could make sure it flourished for the next millennia, but that’s not her assignment. She’s to give a minor blessing tomorrow and then head South for a while.

She’s halfway to the hill when her skin begins crawling, a dark presence making her shiver. A demon. Fairly close by, too. She silences her steps, wondering if she should miracle the loaf of bread she’s got with her into a knife. A quick blessing of it would render it quite deadly to the demon and get rid of them faster, and perhaps a smiting will give her some leeway the next time she miracles an abusive husband to have a change of heart.

She follows the tug in her chest, stepping silently through the forest, the half-moon’s light giving her more than enough light to see by. Once she gets to the edge of the forest she pauses, peering at a shape on top of the hill.

The shape moves, stretches, it’s head tilting up and –

_Crawly? _Aziraphale thinks, freezing, all the fight leaving her body in an instant. 

The demon’s face is lifted towards the sky, her reptilian eyes nearly glowing in the darkness. The moonlight spills over her cheeks, her collarbone, and Aziraphale feels her ears burn at the sight.

Crawly’s hair takes her breath away. Wild and unruly, her curls reaching past her chest. The wind plays with her hair, whipping it across her face, the red of it almost sliver in the moonlight. Aziraphale scowls. It’s the wrong metaphor – she’s seen molten silver in a blacksmith’s shop and knows it doesn’t compare to Crowley’s hair – but it’s all she has.

She watches the demon take a deep breath, leaning back on her elbows, her eyes nearly closing as she basks. Aziraphale moves back into the cover of the shadows, hiding in the roots of a large, dying tree. Crawly looks _relaxed – _there’s a laxness to her that hints at her serpent form, and Aziraphale has to stop her gaze from tracing the line of Crawly’s cheekbones.

She curls up and pulls apart her loaf, nibbling. It wouldn’t do, really, to leave the enemy unsupervised.

-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-

Humans begin to write and Aziraphale is _lost. _She can’t help herself. There is something so humbling about holding it in her hands – a slab of rock, a clay tablet, a scroll, a bundle of papyrus, a bundle of vellum, a bundle of cloth paper, a bundle of manuscripts, a heavy and illuminated tome, a book with wooden covers, a leather-bound book, a flimsy dimestore paperback, pamphlets, broadsides, loose-leaf. So many ways the written word can be inscribed, so many languages, so many styles.

Oh, she has indulged in food, has indulged in fine cloth, has indulged in wine. She knows this. But the moment she learns to read she knows that this, _oh, this, _will be her greatest sin. This will be her greatest struggle. But how can she not adore books? _How? _

There is nothing more human than a book. Nothing. And is she not supposed to understand every facet of humanity as best as she can? Is she not supposed to learn about their failures and triumphs, their hopes and dreams, their heartaches and bliss?

_If I understand them better, I can save more of them_, she thinks, again and again, justifying it to herself, repeating it until she believes that’s the only reason she begins seeking the books out.

Because Heaven won’t let this slide without an iron-clad justification. And if they were to tell her in no uncertain terms that she is no longer allowed to read, she doesn’t know if she’d be able to listen. Doesn’t know if that’s a rule she’d be able to follow.

-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-

Crawly becomes Crowley.

They meet, every once in a while. Crowley begins popping up more and more. Aziraphale will sense her before she sees her, that almost familiar feeling of her skin crawling and the hairs at the back of her neck prickling signaling the demon is close.

They talk, sometimes. Hesitant at first, at least on Aziraphale’s part.

“What?” Crowley asks one night, holding out a bottle of wine, her face hidden in the deep hood of her cloak. “I didn’t steal it.”

Aziraphale gives her a look. “I’m inclined to not believe you.”

Crowley scoffs. “And I’m inclined to tempt the entire group of monks two villages over. Maybe,” she says, shaking the bottle a bit, “if you join me I’ll be too drunk to do so for another few days.”

Aziraphale rolls her eyes. “Well, when you put it that way,” she says, stepping forward and grabbing the bottle, her fingers brushing Crowley’s. 

She studiously ignores the blush on Crowley’s cheeks. Has to, because if she doesn’t she’ll do something rash, something hasty, something that’ll put her in worse books with Heaven than the sword debacle did.

-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-

Crowley comes to her, sometimes, and Aziraphale tries not to notice the deathly pallor of her skin. Tries not to notice her bitten nails, tries not to notice the hunch of her shoulders and the way her eyes never stay in one place.

She wonders, sometimes, why Crowley seeks her out. Surely Hell would have problems with their best agent spending time with the enemy.

Then again, Heaven most certainly would, and here she is, pouring wine, grabbing bread, talking about anything that isn’t Heaven or Hell or Crowley’s apparent anxiety.

“Egypt’s not so bad, really. Lovely pomegranate wine. Have you been?” she asks.

Crowley nods, finally cracking a grin. “They love me.”

Aziraphale scoffs. “I’m not surprised, with their polytheistic tendencies.”

“Oh,” Crowley says, “a tendency? Is that what they’re calling it now?”

“Oh hush,” Aziraphale says, not meaning it in the least. “I’ve heard there are plans in the works for the Egyptians.”

“Nothing good then, I presume?” Crowley asks, taking a sip of wine.

Aziraphale shrugs. “I’m not in the know, this time.”

Crowley scoffs. “Well, whatever it is it can’t be good. My lot’s had a right lovely time with the Egyptians, and they’ll hate to see them go.”

Aziraphale shrugs again. “Whatever the plan is, I’m sure it’s –”

“Do not,” Crowley says, “say ineffable.”

“I wasn’t going to!” She was.

Crowley looks at her, golden eyes sparkling in the firelight. “I wasn’t going to!” she mocks, screwing her face up in such a way that Aziraphale can’t help but laugh. It’s not funny, not really, but she’s been stressed and harried and the laughter continues, morphing from a giggle to a chuckle to a full blown laughing fit, tears slipping down her cheeks.

Crowley begins laughing too, pointing at Aziraphale, body shaking with it, her eyes squinting, and Aziraphale doesn’t think she’s ever seen anyone look more beautiful.

When they both quiet down, an errant giggle escaping here and there, Crowley sighs. “Thanks, angel,” she says, still smiling, the smile reaching her eyes, the color back in her cheeks. “I needed that.”

“Anytime, my dear,” Aziraphale says, patting her knee without thinking about it. She jerks her hand away and coughs, but doesn’t miss the way Crowley had leaned into her touch a moment before.

-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-

Aziraphale doesn’t like the Arrangement. It’s risky for both parties. Mostly for Crowley. 

She pauses in her illumination, setting the quill down so the golden ink doesn’t drip. The scriptorium is deserted this time of night, the fire is low, and by all accounts the light is too dim for her to see by. Luckily, though, she’s not human. Letting her Divinity well up just enough to set her glowing faintly doesn’t take even a smidgen of her concentration, and if Heaven says anything, well. She’s working on a Bible – what can they say, really?

She never knows when Heaven will summon her, never knows when Gabriel will come by for a visit. Aziraphale sucks in a sharp breath – he could pop in when she’s with Crowley and Aziraphale wouldn’t be able to _do _anything, wouldn’t be able to fight back as Gabriel smites Crowley from existence and then she’ll be all alone, she’ll be so very, very alone.

“Stop this,” she says, clenching and unclenching her hands to get the blood flowing. It’s a dark night, cold but cloudless, and she hopes that wherever Crowley is she’s warm.

She shakes her head. She needs to stop thinking about the demon. Has to. There are too many consequences, too many things that could go wrong, too many variables out of her control. It’s better, really, that they stay away from each other. It’s the natural order. They’re hereditary enemies, after all. An angel and a demon. They were never meant to be on the same side.

She nods. Picks up the quill and dips it into golden ink. Tries not to think about what kinds of inks she’d have to mix to get the hue of Crowley’s eyes exactly right.

Tries not to think about what kinds of inks she’d have to mix to get the impossible hue of Crowley’s hair exactly right.

Fails.

-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-

Angels are made to endure. Whatever may come, angels are made to ride it out, whether it be a demonic uprising, a nasty storm, or the end of the world. There were angels at the beginning, and there will be angels at the end.

When it comes to Crowley, though, it seems she’s destined to crumble.

She’s blessing a beggar when she hears rumors of a witch being caught, one with red hair and yellow eyes, and her stomach drops so quickly she thinks the shock may have dicorporated her. 

“Where?” she asks, breathy and strangled, gripping the arm of a soldier before she knows what she’s doing. He tries to shrug her off but she stands firm, tightening her grip. “Where?” she demands, voice stronger now.

“Lancashire, near Pendle,” the man spits, and Aziraphale ignores the rest of his sentence in favor of running away, dashing through the streets with her skirts hiked up, uncaring of the stares. Lancashire isn’t far, not far at all, and if she miracles herself –

She almost trips in her haste to stop. Miracles.

“Oh, _Hell,_” she spits, ignoring the sharp pain in her tongue. She’s on thin ice again, has been since she miraculously ended a small famine. Gabriel hadn’t taken kindly to it and had sent her a rather sharply worded letter asking her to ‘refrain from any undue miracles for the next fifty years, as we can’t afford another upset.’

Really. How was she supposed to know that village was supposed to starve?

A horse whinnies and Aziraphale’s eyes zero in on the brown mare tied up at a post on the outskirts of the village, tail swishing. She groans. She’ll be sore later, but needs must.

The ride is decidedly uncomfortable, to say the least, and she’s definitely using a minor miracle to make sure the horse doesn’t get tired, but she’ll write it off later. _Had to get to this village quickly, _she thinks, practicing her excuse, _because I heard there was a witch and didn’t want them to do any more damage than they already might have. _

The angels in charge of recording miracles aren’t one for going in hot before any real damage is done, but Gabriel is. He’ll appreciate the drama of it, at the very least.

Everything blurs together. Aziraphale casts her senses out, searching for anything demonic. It takes hours, but as she approaches one village her Divinity stirs under her skin and she knows she’s got the right one. She leaves her horse at the outskirts of the village and dashes through the mud and the muck, uncaring of her clothes.

Clothes she can mend. Crowley she may not be able to.

She wants to be stealthy. Wants to take her time and assess the situation, wants to make sure no unneeded miracles are done, wants to be able to have a solid reason as to why she’s doing this if Heaven asks. One that doesn’t involve Crowley or the tightly laced panic making her chest hurt.

But she sees red – the setting sun, the Autumn leaves, that lovely shade of Crowley’s hair she still hasn’t got a name for. Sees the wood smoking, the flames licking at Crowley’s skirts, and can’t stop her shout.

“Crowley!”

The miracles are quick, bursting into fruition as quickly as she can snap her fingers. The crowd of about thirty all suddenly realize they need to pee, desperately so, and run for the nearest private bucket. The fire is doused and Aziraphale is running for the pyre, holding up her skirts, uncaring at the sound of ripping fabric when they get caught on the stakes. Despite the lump in her throat her hands are sure, unshaking as they untie Crowley.

“Perfect timing, angel,” Crowley says, voice somewhat hoarse, and Aziraphale has to stop herself from miracling up a cup of tea with honey.

“Hush, you,” she says, rubbing Crowley’s wrists gently, adding a small miracle to heal the bruises.

“Don’t waste your miracles,” Crowley says, stepping away from the stake she was tied to and clambering down the pile. Aziraphale follows, her eyes cataloging everything. She frets. Crowds Crowley, unable to help herself, and pats her down, fingers searching for any hidden wounds.

Crowley tenses beneath her ministrations. “Whoa, angel, what –”

Aziraphale glares. “Not one word, Crowley. You scared me half to death. How could you be so careless? How could you –” _almost leave me? _

Crowley slips from her grasp, eyes narrowing. “I assure you, carelessness wasn’t involved. Being burnt to discorporation isn’t exactly fun, you know,” Crowley says, snapping her mouth shut a moment later, her eyes widening. 

Aziraphale feels herself pale, feels the sharp _thud _of her heart against her ribs, and sucks in a sharp breath. “Excuse me?” she says, breathless and horrified.

“I – ngk – nothing!” Crowley says, shaking her head. “Exaggeration, angel. You know how it goes.”

“You’ve been through this?” she says, covering her mouth with her hands, her eyes stinging.

The worst part is that she can imagine it so clearly – Crowley purposefully getting caught to allow whatever human had been accused time to flee. Crowley suffering through the beating to make it believable, to buy even more time – there’s a cut marring her left eyebrow, a series of cuts that look suspiciously as if someone had _tried to skin her snake tattoo away, _the hunch of her shoulders in an attempt to ease bruised limps, the split in her lower lip.

The pyre lighting and Crowley _screaming and –_

How many times has she lost Crowley? To burning, to drowning, to any number of things?

How many times has she lost Crowley and _not even known?_

Aziraphale lurches forward, grabbing Crowley before she can slip away, and hugs her close. It’s – it’s – it’s heavenly. There’s no other word for it. The way Crowley’s lanky frame fits against hers. The way her skin tingles. Crowley’s hitched breathing in her ear, her long, lovely hair against her lips. Her scent, covered as it is with smoke, heady and fruity, too, like a peach. Aziraphale breathes it in, the panic in her chest receding, because Crowley is here in her arms and there is nothing Aziraphale won’t do to protect her, nothing she won’t –

A horse whinnies, high and piercing, and they jump away from each other. Aziraphale feels her ears begin to burn and she takes a few steps away, eyes darting upward as if every angel in Heaven has seen that she’s just hugged a demon.

That she’s just _hugged Crowley. _

She shivers with it, her skin tingling in a way far too pleasant, and she wrings her fingers together. She wants more. Wants to card her fingers through Crowley’s hair, wants to caress her cheeks, wants to see if that small patch of scales is still there on the back of her left shoulder.

Crowley coughs and Aziraphale bites her cheek to hide her grin – the blush on her cheeks is so fetching it’s unfair, really.

Aziraphale wrings her hands together. “Well, it was nice seeing you again, Crowley,” she says. Too long. They’ve spent too long together already, this time. Or, rather, they haven’t spent too long but Aziraphale has used enough miracles to show up on Heaven’s radar. She needs to leave in case Gabriel shows up to reprimand her in person this time. 

“Uhh, yeah, thanksss for the ssave,” Crowley says, wincing at her hiss, scratching the back of her head. She takes a breath and tries again. “You sure I can’t tempt you to a drink? As thanks?”

“No, thank you,” Aziraphale says. _Oh absolutely, _Aziraphale thinks.

Crowley shrugs as if she’d expected that answer, but Aziraphale spots the downturn of her lips and has to stop herself from agreeing anyway. This is the worst part of any meet-up – the inevitable end of it. How long will it be, this time, until they see each other again?

How long will it be until Crowley nearly gets discorporated again?

Aziraphale sucks in a sharp breath at the thought. Hell might get tetchy. Hell might not allow Crowley back up for a decade or two or five or ten.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale says, voice half strangled.

Crowley starts, brows furrowing, and blinks. “Hmm? Yeah?” 

“About the arrangement you purposed a while ago,” Aziraphale says. She takes a deep, steadying breath, and raises her hand. “I’d like to accept it.”

Crowley blinks. Aziraphale can see the way her brain screeches to a halt, lips twitching, brows rising. Again, she has to bite back a grin.

Crowley, though, doesn’t, and the way she smiles at Aziraphale reminds Aziraphale so strongly of when they first met on the Wall that she can smell air, all ozone and greenery and oncoming rain.

“You what?” Crowley says, all astonishment and joy, her eyes lighting up, and Aziraphale knows that this is a memory she will keep forever. Knows that this one will always remain crystal clear no matter how much time passes and no matter how many times she looks back on it.

“I accept the Arrangement,” she says.

“Why?” Crowley asks, breathless, but already taking Aziraphale’s hand in hers and shaking it. Crowley’s palm is calloused and warm but her grip is strong and Aziraphale relishes in the touch.

_Because I want to protect you. Because this way if you disappear I’ll at least know. Because I want to spend more time with you. _“Because it’ll come in handy, I suppose.”

The grin on Crowley’s face grows sharper as Aziraphale lets go of her hand. “You just want to spend more time with those monks, don’t you?”

Aziraphale shrugs. “Well…”

Crowley snickers. “Don’t worry, angel, this’ll work just fine. You’ll see.”

Aziraphale watches Crowley turn and walk away into the darkening night, still limping, still hurt, and despite the promise of seeing her again soon – hopefully, anyhow – she aches. 

-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-

They meet. Again and again, in a thousand different places, in a thousand different ways. And Aziraphale will always remember their meetings, of course, don’t misunderstand her, but, well.

Crowley acts differently when she thinks Aziraphale can’t see her.

It’s sneaky of her, she knows – might even be downright dishonest. In her defense, though, the first time was a complete accident. She hadn’t even known Crowley was in the area, her Divinity long since accustomed to Crowley’s unique demonic signature.

She’s in a city this time, wandering around and getting a good look at local cuisine, when she senses a burst of suffering coming from an alley. She follows, of course, and her first thought is that it must be some sort of animal, because there’s a wildness to the aura that’s never apparent in human suffering.

What she sees, though, is Crowley. She stills, peeking from around the corner of a building, and observes.

“Come on,” Crowley hisses, reaching out a scratched hand to a bristling grey bundle of fur.

The bundle hisses back and swipes again, barely missing Crowley’s hand.

“Yeah, yeah, I know, stupid cat,” Crowley says, sighing. “Listen. I know you hate me, but I promise you I’m not going to hurt you.” She pauses. “Okay, well, not without good reason.”

The cat snarls again and Aziraphale frowns, wondering why it doesn’t run away.

The answer becomes apparent when the cat charges Crowley, hissing furiously, one of its hind legs crooked, the bone poking through the skin, its fur covered in dried blood. Aziraphale winces, spots the newly not-pregnant underbelly, and wrings her hands.

Crowley strikes, grabbing the cat, one hand firmly closing around the broken leg and the other holding the cat by her scruff. The cat yowls, scratches, bites, spilling Crowley’s blood, and Aziraphale bites her cheek to stop herself from gasping in alarm.

“I know, I know,” Crowley says calmly, voice strangled. “I know.”

It lasts a second – the surge of a demonic miracle. Crowley sets the spitting cat down and she darts back into the safety of the pile of wooden crates, still growling.

Crowley grins, sharp and bitter. “Keep that between us, will you?”

The cat growls once more, and Aziraphale leaves before Crowley can spot her, her chest clenching. By the time she and Crowley meet a few hours later the deep scratches and bite marks on her hands still aren’t healed, and Aziraphale flutters about, her hands hovering over Crowley’s.

“Oh, good lord,” Aziraphale breathes.

“Don’t worry about it, angel. Just got into a fight with a cat, is all,” Crowley says.

“Well, I’d say it put up a right fight,” Aziraphale says.

Crowley shrugs. “My fault, really. I backed it into a corner,” she says. A pause. “Oh, look, some strawberries. You were looking for some, right?”

Aziraphale lets Crowley have the distraction and tries not to be obvious with the occasional use of minor healing miracles. She knows Crowley will notice, of course, but she also knows Crowley won’t call her out on it.

-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-

Aziraphale opens the bookshop, artfully refuses Heaven’s promotion, and nearly throttles Crowley the next time she sees her.

She still can’t remember just what she said to make Gabriel rethink the promotion. Seeing Crowley outside of the shop over Gabriel’s shoulder, cool as ever, chocolates in one hand and a bunch of flowers in the other had made her ears ring. 

Too close.

She looks into Gabriel’s violet eyes, hoping nothing shows on her face except acquiescence, except a polite if strained smile.

_Touch her and you’ll pay, _she thinks viciously.

He doesn’t. He never will.

Crowley shows up a couple of hours later laughing, refusing to tell Aziraphale the joke. There’s a twinkle in her eyes, though, bright enough that Aziraphale doesn’t push for more information.

It’s enough to see her happy.

-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-

Aziraphale wonders, sometimes, about all of the other scenarios. She can’t help it – a few millennia of reading stories lends itself to daydreams, lends itself to thinking about all of the possible ways it could have been different. What if Crowley hadn’t Fallen? What if they’d both Fallen? What if their positions were reversed? What if they had been human from the start? What if, what if, what if.

She spends days, sometimes, sitting in her armchair and staring blankly at a book in her lap pondering the possibilities. Would they have been friends, if they were different from what they are? She likes to think so. In fact, there’s no other possibility that seems even remotely possible to her. In every variation they are friends, in every variation they are _more _than, well.

The thought doesn’t bear thinking about.

Except she _does _think about it. Extensively. To the point of obsession.

It’s in the middle of one of these days-long trains of thought that she wonders, not for the first time, what Crowley’s hair would feel like. She wants to run her fingers through those locks and feel that impossible softness, because there’s no way Crowley’s hair isn’t soft. She wants to feel those strands slip between her fingertips as she braids Crowley’s hair. Wants to muss it up a bit, enough for it to be imperfect, because of all the years they’ve been friends she’s only seen it imperfect a handful of times. 

Aches.

-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-

Crowley saves her from Nazis but more than that, Crowley saves the books.

Crowley saves the books and Aziraphale feels her love like flower petals on her skin, feels it wrap around her like a well-worn blanket. Their hands brush when Crowley gives her the books and Aziraphale feels the touch surge up her arm and into her head, feels almost dizzy with it.

“I’ve missed you,” she says, too breathily, too sincerely, too _everything. _

Crowley freezes. Looks over her shoulder at Aziraphale, her ponytail over one shoulder, a blush high on her cheeks. “Funny that, an angel missing a demon.”

Her voice is tired, heavy, laced with pain, and it’s only then that Aziraphale remembers the way she jumped around. 

“Oh, good lord Crowley, let’s get you off of your feet,” she says, worry creasing her brow. Maybe she can risk another miracle tonight.

But Crowley shakes her head. “I’m fine, angel.”

Aziraphale watches her leave and feels a piece of her heart chip away. Feels it float away from her like a leaf on a breeze, following Crowley’s steps.

-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-

Aziraphale stumbles across the orchard quite by accident, somewhere in the countryside. Sometimes her assignments will take her out of London. Such assignments are few and far in between, but it still happens. Luckily for her, though, it was a quick miracle, and she had ample time to stop be a little farmer’s market in a nearby town. 

She must have taken a wrong turn, or maybe the right turn. Either way she’s surrounded by apple trees and can’t help the smile that grows on her face. Eden is complicated and always will be. The site of her greatest failure but also, to her, her greatest triumph.

After all, Eden means Crowley. It means apples and plants and flaming swords, but mostly it means Crowley.

She goes up to one of the trees, watching the sunlight dapple through the leaves. A breeze is blowing, playing with her hair, and she tucks it behind her ears, peering into the branches. Part of her expects to see a familiar red-and-black snake. Part of her also feels as if she’ll get smote for even daring to _look _at the apple tree.

Funny, really, how she can never do anything without wondering if it’ll be the last straw for Heaven.

She looks at the apple, remembering that first sunset, remembering the first time she saw Crowley’s hair.

She hesitates for a moment but remembers herself. It’s not as if it’s Eden. She reaches for the apple, stretching, standing on the tips of her toes, and plucks the apple from its tree. She sinks her teeth into it, the juice running down her chin, and groans. _Oh, _the crispness, the sweetness, the crunch of it between her teeth.

She closes her eyes. Thinks of Crowley’s eyes, of Crowley’s smirk, of her lovely, lovely hair.

_No wonder Eve couldn’t help herself, _she thinks, taking another bite.

-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-

“You go too fast for me, Crowley.”

The words are bitter in her mouth, rancid, too sour, too sharp, too hard. She wants, more than anything, to reel them back in because she’s hearing how they sound and it’s not what she means, not really. 

What she means is that it’s too dangerous – the holy water, their meetings, _them. _Whatever they are. Too dangerous by far and yet she can’t help herself, can’t help letting herself be tempted.

Is it temptation at all, though, when she wants it?

She means to say that she can’t stand the thought of Crowley being within a hundred thousand miles of holy water and yet here she is, holding a thermos of it, nothing between her and utter annihilation but a flimsy bit of metal.

Nothing between the continuation of Aziraphale’s world and the death of it than a flimsy piece of metal.

What she means is that all Crowley has to do is tell her her fears, tell her her worries, and she will protect Crowley with every ounce of herself.

She was a warrior, once, after all.

Aziraphale forces to watch the devastation her words have wrought. Sends a little prayer upward for Crowley’s glasses because if she had to see Crowley’s eyes she thinks she’d discorporate on the spot. Still, she forces herself to take the in the downturn of Crowley’s lips, the hunch of her shoulders, the furrowing of her brows. Forces herself to take in the way Crowley now _leans away _from her in the automobile and she can’t, she can’t stay, because if she does she’ll take it all back.

Her retreat isn’t anything elegant. It isn’t even within the same vicinity as collected. She ducks into a dimly-lit alley, hand over her mouth to smother the sob rising in her throat. Tears flow down her cheeks and she swipes angrily at them, gasping, her hands trembling.

It’s unfair, is what it is. Utterly so. Because she knows Crowley loves her, would have to be a fool not to, and God help her, she loves Crowley too. Loves her in every way an angel can love. Loves her so much she feels she may burst with it. Loves her enough to give her the one thing that could utterly annihilate her, could wipe her from every plane of existence.

Aziraphale sobs again, louder this time, unable to help herself. The miracle she snaps into existence so no one notices her is instinct at this point. She doesn’t – she can’t – she –

She doesn’t know what she’ll do if Crowley uses the holy water on herself. The thought is unbearable. A world without Crowley would be worse than a world without books.

So even though she wants to leave the alley, she doesn’t. She waits until she hears the familiar roar of the Bentley start up and drift away. Waits until even the echoes of it disappears. Then waits some more – waits for her breathing to steady, waits for her racing heart to calm, waits for the dread to settle into her chest. Breathes around it, through it, with it.

Then she brushes herself off and, with a miracle, returns to her bookshop.

-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-

God spoke to her once and only once.

** _Guard and protect, but love, too. _ **

Aziraphale was a warrior, once. She fought in the only real conflict to ever mar Heaven’s halls. She wears that injury now, that deep scar in her celestial form on her thigh, that moment where she showed mercy to a being that would show no mercy to her.

She doesn’t blame them, whoever they are. If she met them again she thinks she’d thank them – that injury got her out of the worst of the fighting, and by the time the Falling began in earnest she was stationed at the Eastern Gate.

The sky lit up that night, for of course it was night, for God was too angry, too hurt, to let the Sun shine. No moon, no stars, just an endless expanse of blackness. Then, blink by blink, they Fell. Great, sparking flames that arced over the horizon, leaving trails of ripped Divinity and burnt wings.

Aziraphale was far enough away to not feel the heat of it, but she heard the screams. Felt the sound rush through her corporeal form, through her celestial form, right down to her own Divinity, scraping against the edges of everything that made her, _her. _

She’d turned her back on the Western horizon, unable to watch, but she heard.

Oh, she heard.

-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-

Aziraphale makes a habit of showing up to their meetings early. Catches a glimpse of Crowley from across the way and watches. If she weren’t an angel she’d call it lurking but angels don’t _lurk. _They observe. Make notes. That sort of thing.

Crowley is fascinating up close, but watching from afar is something else entirely. It’s little things, subtle things, things that anyone else would miss. But Aziraphale has known Crowley for thousands of years, so she doesn’t miss it when Crowley swipes an apple from a nearby fruit stand and gives it to one of the hungry children; doesn’t miss the way she swipes wallets, too, from people with expensive furs and jewelry, and gives it to the next beggar she sees.

Mostly, though, she doesn’t miss the way Crowley never seems to relax. She can’t see her eyes due to those glasses but she knows they’re constantly casing wherever she is, always searching, her shoulders always tense.

Aziraphale figures out why, one day, and almost hits herself because she really can be so dense sometimes, can’t she?

The moment the demon crawls out of the ground she feels it – that slight surge of demonic energy, the hairs on the back of her neck rising, the way her Divinity rises to the surface.

She’s arrived early for a meeting with Crowley, as usual, except she’s even earlier than normal because there’s a lovely used bookstore near the café they agreed to meet at and such bookstores are always so full of surprises. She’s in the bookstore when she feels it happens and hurries out, already knowing it’s not Crowley, already fearing for Crowley should her demon show up early.

She traces the signature to a nearby park and finds the demon lurking in the shadows. A beetle drapes itself over their shoulder, its wings twitching, and the smell of dung is so thick Aziraphale nearly gags with it.

“Hello there,” she says, giving a small wave.

The demon growls, black eyes glinting in the sunlight. “So, Crawly still hasn’t killed you, has she?”

Aziraphale’s lips twitch, her hands clenched at her sides. “Not for lack of trying.”

The demon grins then, showing off sharp teeth, the beetle on their shoulder shaking harder as if to scare her. She’s not impressed. Crowley’s fangs are far sharper, her natural grace far more intimidating than this hulking beetle demon. 

Aziraphale sighs. “Is that everything? It’s just that it really is such a nice day out, and I wanted to enjoy it, and you are the exact opposite of joy." 

The demon’s grin grows comically large, and Aziraphale has to fight down a laugh. “Run along, uppity angel. I’ve got business with Crawly,” they say, pleasure lighting up their eyes. “You’ll be able to tell Heaven you successfully rid the Earth of her for a while by the time we’re through with her.”

A white-hot flash of anger rushes through Aziraphale and she pulls at her Divinity by instinct, snapping her fingers. There’s a quick, blinding flash. 

“Well,” she says, blinking, staring at the miniscule pile of ashes. “I haven’t had to smite a demon in centuries. Upstairs will be pleased, at least.”

She hums, walking back to the bookstore, and decides to sit outside the café instead. Crowley will be along shortly, now. There’s no way she’ll feel that surge of Divinity and not come racing along in her Bentley, worried and slightly panicked and trying not to show it.

She’ll have to keep a better lookout for Hellish intervention from now on. It just wouldn’t do, really, for Crowley to get hurt. Wouldn’t do at all.

Aziraphale orders tea and a bit of lemon cake as she waits.

-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-

It hits her out of the blue, one day, that for all of the things she’s done – all of the rules she’s stretched, all of the gluttony she’s given in to, all of the things she’s delighted in – that knowing Crowley is the greatest sin of them all.

She’ll have to choose, one day, she knows: Crowley or Heaven. Crowley or God. Crowley or Divinity.

For the first time, though, the choice doesn’t scare her. She’d choose Crowley, again and again, no matter the punishment.

If loving Crowley is a sin, then it’s the only sin worth committing.

-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-

She’s learned, over the years, that Crowley hates being stared at. Any kind of stare – a vacant stare where someone’s eyes have unwittingly settled onto her; an innocent, questioning stare of a child; the angry, lusting, dark stare of a man out at night. Whatever the stare is, Crowley avoids it like every plague.

Aziraphale learns why one night when Crowley is three sheets to the wind, having turned up after a decade and refusing to tell Aziraphale what she’s been up to.

“Hate bein’ ssssstared at, hate it,” she hisses, taking another swig from the bottle, not bothering to share.

Aziraphale doesn’t say anything, just watches and tries _not _to stare. Funny, really, how aware she is of her own eyes’ movements and how badly she wants to settle her gaze onto Crowley and never look away. But there’s a sharpness in Crowley’s shoulders the preludes an even sharper tongue, and she’s hesitant to set her off.

It’s been a lonely ten years.

“At’ssss what they do, angel, they sssstare,” she says, lurching up from where she’s lounging on the couch and looks at Aziraphale from over her glasses, golden eyes sparkling in the low light. Aziraphale is helpless against them, helpless to look away, and so she doesn’t. She meets Crowley’s stare – wild and daring and exhausted – with a determined look of her own.

Whatever Crowley sees, she seems to like, because she grins, relaxing back into the couch. “Right before they, ahh –” she gestures vaguely, nearly dropping the bottle as her hands swipe at air like cat pawing at something. “On ya. Like – like – wha’sss that phrassse, angel, the one with the – the –”

“Like rats on a carcass?”

“Yesss!” Crowley says, throwing her hands up. “Jusss like that. Can alwaysss tell when they wanna fight.”

Aziraphale grits her teeth. Wrings her hands together. She wants her sword, wants to descend on Hell and smite every demon whoever hurt Crowley. Wants to obliterate each and every demon that ever scared her or made her uncomfortable.

She was a warrior, once.

But she was always a guardian. Whether a guardian of God’s, a guardian of Eden, a guardian of humanity, she’s always been a guard.

The knowledge has long since settled into her, has long since burrowed its way into her core and made a home there, but it never fails to make her heart skip a beat.

_I’ll protect you, _she thinks, watching Crowley’s hands wave through the air as she prattles on about turtles. The warm thing in her chest hardens but doesn’t cool.

_I’ll protect you._

-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-

There are many kinds of falling – falling from a great height, tripping and falling down the stairs, falling from someone’s good graces.

There is falling and there is Falling. Each one having its own unique sense of dread; it's own unique feeling of panic. The reactions are instinctive, even for an angel. If Aziraphale trips and falls she throws her arms out to catch herself. She assumes that when an angel Falls, it’s much the same, except that it doesn’t do any good.

But there’s another kind of falling: _falling. _And this _falling _is sometimes slow, sometimes fast, but it’s a _fall _all the same. She can throw her arms out to stop herself all she wants to. It won’t do any good. For this force is stronger than gravity, stronger than God’s displeasure, stronger than her own deep terror of Falling.

She finds that, once she accepts it, _falling _isn’t really all that bad. Not when it’s for Crowley.

-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-

The Apocawasn’t comes and goes but Crowley stays. Aziraphale can’t say she minds. In fact, she’s almost wobbly with relief. Six thousand years she’s spent not quite knowing where Crowley is, or if she’s okay, or if she’s unharmed, or if she’s down in Hell again, or if –

She’s spent a fair amount of time worrying about her erstwhile demon, is all, and it’s a relief to not have to.

It’s after the swap, after the Ritz, after a night spent drinking when they probably should’ve been resting. It’s nine in the morning, the birds are singing, the sky is blue, there are no krakens bursting from the depths of the sea, and Crowley is still in the bookshop.

Aziraphale smiles into her cup of cocoa, watching Crowley nap in the sunlight. She’s utterly boneless in her sleep, limbs akimbo, one leg thrown over the back of the couch and the other dangling towards the ground. Aziraphale grips her mug tightly so she doesn’t stand and fix both of Crowley’s legs because _surely that can’t be comfortable, darling. _But maybe it isn’t. She was in Crowley’s body long enough to know that, due to being a snake in human skin, there are some things that feel better than others. Sauntering hurts less than walking stiffly. Slouching hurts less than sitting upright.

_I’ll have to ask her why that is at some point, _Aziraphale thinks, humming softly. Maybe it’s due to a snake not having limbs and Crowley forcing herself to have them. Or maybe because having the limbs means her body is more taunt, more compressed in a way it shouldn’t be, and moving it stops the muscles from locking up?

She makes another mental note to read up on snakes in general. It’s shameful, really, how little she knows about snakes despite her best friend being one. Someone really ought to talk some sense into her.

Crowley snuffles in her sleep and Aziraphale nearly melts off the chair, pressing her lips tightly together to stop the happy, awed noise threatening to burst from her. Crowley shifts, turning her head to Aziraphale, her hair falling across her face, and sleeps on.

Aziraphale pauses. Doesn’t let herself think. Puts the mug on her desk and slowly, hand trembling, brushes the hair away from Crowley’s eyes. Tucks it behind her ear. Tries not to discorporate when Crowley whines a little bit, unconsciously leaning into Aziraphale’s touch.

It takes every ounce of willpower for her to pull away.

She thinks she really can’t be blamed for spending the rest of Crowley’s nap watching her sleep, only jerking into movement when Crowley begins waking.

It’s rude to stare, after all.

-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-

She thinks, later, when the dust has settled, about Crowley’s sharp little ‘nice knowing you’ as the Earth split open and Satan heaved himself out of Hell.

She should’ve said something. Even something as simple as ‘you too.’ Or maybe something more, something to match the weight begin those three words, something to match the things that Crowley didn’t say.

Something like: “You were the best part, dear.” Something like: “At least we’ll go together.” Something like: “I should have kissed you when I had the chance, should have hugged you more often, should have told you how ardently I adore you.”

She should have said: “Crowley, I love you.”

_But the world didn’t end, _she realizes, lifting her gaze from the book in front of her. _The world didn’t end and yet I still haven’t said anything of merit, still haven’t professed, still haven’t rectified it all. _

-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-

A part of her knows that Crowley isn’t okay. There’s too much tension in the line of her shoulders, too much anxious movement. She naps, still, but seems to jerk awake most of the time, frantically searching for something, only relaxing she sees Aziraphale.

Aziraphale doesn’t have to ask what the nightmares are about. If what Crowley felt that day was even a fraction of what Aziraphale felt in Crowley’s body, face-to-face with a tub full of holy water, it doesn’t bear thinking about.

So she doesn’t say anything. Six thousand years of not saying anything is an easy habit to fall back into. She adjusts, just a little – brightens the shop a bit for Crowley’s plants, keeps Crowley’s favorite cocoa on hand, and generally just lets Crowley stay with her, whether it’s in the bookshop or at a restaurant or while walking through the park.

She should have known it would come to a head sooner or later.

The bell on the bookshop’s door rings and Aziraphale huffs, not bothering to look up from the book she’s reading. If she ignores the customer and puts on an icy demeanor maybe, they’ll go away quicker.

She doesn’t notice the second customer, though, the one that must have come in right behind the first one, and she feels ice shoot up her spine when he speaks.

“You need to give me a first edition of Oscar Wilde’s _Dorian Grey,_” he says, American accent strong and self-assured, standing too close to her for comfort.

She looks at him and her heart skips a beat. Tall, broad shoulders, defined chin, suit, short brown hair, dark eyes – at first glance he is Gabriel. He is Gabriel coming to gloat about how Heaven and Hell had figured out their switcheroo, coming to force her back to Heaven, coming to _kill Crowley and – _

She takes a deep breath. Stands. “I’m not selling,” she says, straightening her spine.

She was a warrior, once. She’s faced Heaven and Hell. A customer is no different, really.

He glares at her. “Excuse me?”

Aziraphale opens her mouth to repeat herself but she doesn’t get the chance.

She senses Crowley before she sees her. Feels the air around them drop a few degrees, feels her skin crawl in a way it hasn’t for at least three thousand years. From the corner of her eye she spots movement – fiery hair and slitted, golden eyes – before Crowley’s forcing herself between her and the customer.

Crowley hisses, a sound that sends every hair on Aziraphale’s body standing at attention. It’s all warning and deadly intent, her lips curled around her elongated fangs, her fingertips ending in wickedly sharp claws. Scales sweep up her hands, her forearms, her elbows, her shoulders, disappearing under the black t-shirt.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale shouts, miracling the customers out of the store, wrapping her arms around Crowley’s waist and anchoring her even as she makes to leap after the American. 

“He – he wasss,” Crowley hisses between gasping breaths, body trembling, muscles tense under Aziraphale’s hands.

“Just a customer,” Aziraphale says, moving to get in front of Crowley, sliding her hands up Crowley’s ribcage until she’s cradling Crowley’s face.

Crowley’s lost her sclera, her eyes a familiar gold that takes Aziraphale’s breath away. There are scales dotting her cheeks, her neck, dipping into her collarbone. Aziraphale gently thumbs away the tears slipping from Crowley’s eyes.

“Darling, darling, can you look at me?” she says, waiting patiently as Crowley’s eyes quit darting around the room and land on her.

“I thought he wasss Gabriel,” she says, voice shaking. Her hands, still sporting those wicked claws, close around Aziraphale’s wrists and she nearly melts at the gentleness of Crowley’s touch, the caution, the hesitation.

But there will be time for reveling later.

“You’re safe,” she says. “It wasn’t him, Crowley, I promise.”

The sudden, strangled laugh Crowley spits out makes her startle. “I don’t care about _me, _angel.”

“Oh, my darling,” Aziraphale breathes, gathering Crowley into a hug. She runs her fingers through Crowley’s hair and rubs her back – anything to calm the gasping, trembling woman in her arms. If anything, though, it seems to make it worse.

Crowley’s breath is hot in her ear. “You were dead,” she wails, and Aziraphale hugs her tighter, hugs her as she begins to sob, hugs her as she puts all of her weight on Aziraphale, trusting the angel to hold them both. And Aziraphale does. She plants her feet into the carpet and doesn’t move, doesn’t falter, doesn’t weaken. Crowley’s hands grip the back of her jacket tight, and she hears the tell-tale sound of it ripping and couldn’t care less.

“You were dead,” Crowley says, voice garbled, forced out between great, heaving breaths. “I couldn’t find you, I couldn’t _find you._” She rears up, putting just enough distance between them so that she can look into Aziraphale’s eyes.

“You promised you wouldn’t leave me alone,” she hisses, eyes watery, her voice a mess of hurt and anger and despair.

It’s hard to speak through the lump in her throat. “I know,” Aziraphale says, “and I’m sorrier than you’ll ever know.”

Crowley looks at her, eyes narrowing, and Aziraphale looks back. She needs to make sure Crowley knows. Needs to make sure that no matter what happens she will be beside her from this point onward. Nothing will separate them, not as long as Aziraphale exists.

Crowley nods, a small jerk of her head, and curls back into Aziraphale, shaking less but still crying, and Aziraphale holds her tight.

-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-

“You don’t have to wear those around me, you know,” Aziraphale says one day, stirring her hot cocoa.

Crowley looks up from her phone. “What?” 

“Your glasses,” Aziraphale says, setting down her mug and moving towards her. She taps them lightly but doesn’t move to take them off. “You never have to wear them around me." 

Crowley snorts. “They’re a bit much, angel, even I know that,” she says, but she takes them off anyway, blinking at the sudden change in light. 

Aziraphale smiles. “Lovely,” she says, lightly brushing an errant strand of hair away from Crowley’s face and tucking it behind her ear. She hears Crowley suck in a breath and continues. “I’ve spent six millenium trying to figure out just what shade they are, you know. Same with your hair,” she says, lightly twirling a bit of Crowley’s hair around her finger.

“And?” Crowley breathes out, not looking at her.

“And I still haven’t found any comparison for your eyes,” Aziraphale says, “but your hair has always reminded me of Eden.”

“Oh?” Crowley says, her eyes tracing circles across the room.

Aziraphale wants her to look at her. Wants Crowley’s eyes on her always. Wants Crowley’s hand in her hand, wants Crowley’s mouth on her mouth, wants and wants and wants. 

Angels shouldn’t want, but she’s never been a very good angel, has she?

“My first sunset,” Aziraphale says, sitting on the couch’s armrest so that Crowley doesn’t have to move. “But your hair still eclipses it.”

“Ngk – first sunset, huh?” she says, leaning into Aziraphale’s touch.

And just this once Aziraphale needs to be daring. Just this once she _wants _to be daring.

She doesn’t let herself think. She stands again and reaches across the space between them, once an insurmountable ocean now a steady brook, and takes Crowley’s hand in hers. Entwines their fingers. Relishes in the warmth of Crowley’s skin – knows it’s the Hellfire brimming just underneath the surface, just like her Divinity, and is unafraid.

She waits for Crowley’s reaction. Hears her breath stutter and stop. Patience – she knows that when truly surprised Crowley needs a moment, sometimes four or five, to her get her brain up and running again.

Crowley’s waited for so long. It’s only fair, really, that Aziraphale waits in return.

_I’ll always wait for you, _she thinks, rubbing her thumb across the top of Crowley’s hand. _Take your time, darling. _

“Angel?” Crowley’s voice, soft and questioning, tentative in a way she should never be.

“I’ve loved you for so long,” Aziraphale says, “that I don’t quite know what to do now that we’re on our own side. It’s scary, being able to move forward, but I’m tired of stagnation.” 

Crowley makes a keening noise, half between a hiss and a sob, and it’s so reminiscent of the time with the American customer that Aziraphale’s heart breaks a little.

“Don’t,” Crowley says, voice thick, “not if you don’t mean it.”

Aziraphale cups Crowley’s cheeks and gets down on her knees and Crowley’s eyes go wide and Aziraphale doesn’t think, doesn’t hesitate, just lets the words flow. “I mean it,” she says, voice harsh and unrelenting. “I love you, Crowley, in every way I can love. I love you more than this bookshop, I love you more than my books, I love you more than food, I love you more than humanity, I love you more than Heaven, I love you more than _God Herself.”_

Crowley jerks, her arms wrapping around Aziraphale’s neck, her wings coming out with the _fwoosh, _and Aziraphale lets her crowd around her. Crowley ends bracketing her against the coffee table, the edge of it digging into the back of her shoulders. Crowley’s hotter now, and Aziraphale can see the Hellfire sparking in her eyes, can feel it rise against her skin.

She’s not afraid.

“_Ssshut up,_” Crowley hisses, her wings cocooning them. “You can’t just _sssay thingsss _like that. What if Ssshe’s lissstening?”

Aziraphale shrugs. “I don’t care.”

Crowley’s eyes widen, the Hellfire dimming, her mouth agape. “You – you – _angel!”_

Aziraphale moves forward by an inch and she’s kissing Crowley, breathing her in, her hands settling on Crowley’s hips. For a moment Crowley doesn’t react but then she’s kissing her back and Aziraphale smiles, beams, her chest near to bursting with her joy.

She pulls back, panting, and rests her forehead against Crowley’s. Their noses brush.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley breathes. Says her name like a blessing, like a benediction, like a life preserver in a dangerous sea, and Aziraphale presses her forehead into Crowley’s a little harder, grounding her.

“Just you and me,” Aziraphale says. “Just our side, now.”

Crowley ducks her head into Aziraphale’s neck, her wings disappearing, and curls up tight in Aziraphale’s arms. Aziraphale brings forth her own wings and cocoons them in white, her feathers a little unkept. She shivers when Crowley’s fingers begin lightly straightening her feathers.

“I love you,” Crowley says in her ear, a whisper of a breath. 

Aziraphale beams.

-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-

They settle into the South Downs quickly, and within a week Crowley is out in the garden yelling at her plants while Aziraphale tries her hand at baking. The kitchen is situated so that whenever Aziraphale is at the sink she can look out and watch Crowley. Watch her dig in the dirt, watch her wrestle with the bushes, watch her water, watch her lay out as a snake on one of the large rocks dotting their backyard and bask in the sunlight. 

Today Crowley is planting a row of flowers, little blue ones that when Aziraphale asked why Crowley responded with a put upon, “They remind me of your eyes.”

Aziraphale had kissed her on the cheek and Crowley’s resultant blush and sputtering had been appropriately adorable.

Aziraphale walks out of their cottage with two glasses of water, watching Crowley. She’s got a large, wide-brimmed sunhat on today, her hair in a single braid down her back. There’s dirt smeared on her hands, her face, her shirt, her jeans – everywhere, really. Aziraphale watches her mutter, watches her eyebrows twitch and her lips turn up and doesn’t bother with biting back a smile. Thinks about the first sunset she saw, thinks about the first time she saw Crowley, thinks about all the shades of red and orange and yellow in the world and how none of them could ever describe Crowley’s hair.

Mostly, though, she thinks what a miracle it is that, after everything, Crowley can still smile.

She thinks Crowley herself is, perhaps, the greatest miracle of all.

She doesn’t say it, though, doesn’t think she could live through Crowley’s resultant teasing. Instead she walks out into the sunlight and gives Crowley the glass of water, tucking an errant strand of hair behind her ear.

“They’ll be in perfect shape in no time, angel, just you wait,” Crowley says, glaring at the little blue flowers. They tremble.

Aziraphale smiles and pulls Crowley close, nearly dislodging Crowley’s hat when she presses their foreheads together.

“I love you,” she says, watching the way Crowley’s eyes soften.

Crowley wraps her arms around Aziraphale. “I love you too, angel.”

And Aziraphale knows that, whatever may come, whether in a year or another millennium, she will protect this. She will protect Crowley, will protect what they’ve built, will protect this garden and her beloved snake.

She was a warrior once, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> again i ask: how much lesbian yearning can i project onto a character before they're ooc?


End file.
